


You Don't Hate Christmas

by VergofTowels



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk gets a few nice surprises while sick on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Hate Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallacyFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/gifts).



> I hope you like it! I had a bit of trouble with timing due to circumstances beyond my control, but I don't think it seems too rushed, hopefully. :) 
> 
> Also, because I'm too lazy to figure out colors right now, Pesterchum handles are differentiated by capitalization.

It’s snowing outside and, on a better day, you would sneak a glance at the window every now and then to watch the flakes spiral down from the heavy gray clouds. It never snowed in Texas, or at least not where you lived, and you like to think you’re not yet jaded enough that you take little things like snowfall for granted. However, today is not a good enough day for you to care about the magic of winter. In fact, today is such a terrible day that you find yourself glaring at the clock on the wall above your till and wishing you had control over time. The only white drifts crossing your mind are the mountains of slush being tracked in by the mindless multitudes.

You don’t hate Christmas. Why bother? You can’t escape the brain-searing hell of hearing “Silver Bells” playing in every store you step into. You’ve heard it six times in the last hour of your shift, each a different version by a different famous person you don’t give a shit about. You can’t escape the bright strings of lights that adorn every roof, tree, and shrub, even though most of displays must have been set up by colorblind monkeys and ought to be torn down by the neighborhood committee. You can’t escape the blithely grinning Santas, reindeer, and snowmen that blaze on billboards, windows, every shelf and every sweater. You can’t even escape Hanukkah, trying desperately to catch up to its over-commercialized cousin. Just last week you slipped on an honest-to-god-damned dreidel in the parking lot and bashed you face against your shitty truck. So no. You don’t hate Christmas, because if you did, you’re pretty sure your head would have exploded by now.

As it is, though, the whole season is giving you one hell of a headache.

“Happy Holidays,” you manage, lips pressed into something resembling a smile as you hand over a bag of DVDs and wireless game controllers to a woman who has consistently preferred her cell phone’s company to yours. You grit your teeth a bit as she gives you a look and are surprised when she says “thank you” instead of _“Merry Christmas,_ you fucking heathen!” You’re a bit surprised that she bothered to thank you at all. 

A young man steps up to the till once she’s gone, just the next in an almost interminable number of customers. You could really use a break, but you’ve used up your last for the day already. It’s too bad, since you’re getting really sick of ringing up everyone’s down-to-the-fucking wire purchases. It’s December 23rd, for crying out loud. Why hadn’t they finished their shopping online six months ago, like a normal person? You’ve had everyone’s gifts wrapped in appropriate packaging and sitting neatly in your closet since July. The ones you needed to mail went out weeks ago and are now, you’re sure, picking up a charming cover of piney dandruff under their respective Christmas trees.

“Did you find everything you were looking for today?” you rattle off, barely looking at the guy as you slide a copy of _The Avengers_ across your scanner and ring it up. You’re surprised he managed to claim one. By this point, a lot of your shelves are bare.

“I think I have now!” he says in a voice that really doesn’t need to sound so chipper. Your temples throb.

“Great,” you say, and stick his purchase a bit haphazardly into a plastic bag. “Your total is $15.99.”

He hands you a $20 and you pop open the machine to get his change. The whole time he’s smiling at you like you’re missing a joke and it’s rubbing you the wrong way. Then again, he could just be _really_ happy to get an eyeful of Thor’s hammer when he gets home.

“$4.01 is your change, have a nice day, Happy Holidays,” you say, dropping a pile of ones, his receipt, and one shiny penny into his open palm. You turn to look at the next customer in line and open your mouth to call them over, but the guy hasn’t moved. Instead, he’s still looking at you, though now his smile has turned a bit rueful.

“Not even going to say hello, chum?” he asks, dark eyebrows rising over thick square lenses. His oversized pearly whites are resting on his bottom lip in a manner you would almost call coy if you didn’t know him… Wait.

 _“Jake?”_ You resist the urge to rub your eyes as if you had come across a particularly convincing mirage, though for a second you let the layers of your professional and coolkid facades drop. It can’t be Jake standing there in front of your register in a green knit cap with teeth like a skull and a ridiculous pair of shorts despite the season. It just can’t be. You were pretty sure he was waist deep in jungle foliage the last time you exchanged snarky messages at 4 AM. You feel the flutter of butterflies in your stomach and mercilessly quash them lest your face start to redden and betray you. “Hi.”

“Well, hi!” he bursts out, back to grinning like a moron. “Thought you wouldn’t recognize me at all for a second there, Strider!” His accent is a strange amalgamation of regions and eras and you wonder if he ever listens to himself and laughs. There’s a smile edging at your lips.

“You’ll have to accept my apology,” you say. “I really wasn’t expecting to see you and it’s been a bit of a long day.” Speaking of that, the other customers in line are starting to get restless and your coworker at the other till is making faces at you to get on with it. “Hey, will you still be around at eight? That’s when I get off.”

“Not like I have anywhere else to be in this marvelous strange place,” he chirps. “Pester me when you’re free, all right? I’m probably going to nip into that fancy-pants arcade down at the other end of the mall.”

“Sure. It’s really good to see you.” You wave him off and apologize to the 80-year-old dude who shuffles up afterward, arms laden with cables and face set in a stubborn mask. You sigh silently, sure that whoever’s on the receiving end of this tragedy will be back with the receipt on the 26th. You just try to ring him up as fast as possible. The clock on the wall above you is inching along just as slowly as it has been, but at least now you can occupy yourself with thoughts of Jake while you work. It helps. A little.

\---

You clock out at eight exactly, and almost sag with relief as you let yourself out of the store and into the mall hallway. Your phone is in your hand and you’re practically pestering Jake without even looking, feet carrying you toward the food court and the arcade. It isn’t until after he gleefully promises to meet you outside the Vietnamese place that you feel a lead weight sink into your chest. You’re a mess. Your hair is drooping out of place, you overslept this morning and had to sacrifice your shower, and you’re clad in the unflattering khakis and blue polo shirt of your uniform. At least you have your shades, but they keep slipping down your nose. Is it hot in here?

You really hate surprises. 

With some trepidation, you swing around the corner, tucking your phone back into your pocket. There he is, looking completely relaxed as he examines the plastic menu on the wall. Even from here you can see there’s a Santa stuck onto the corner of the menu. Looks like even your pho isn’t safe from the holiday cheer. 

“Hey,” you say when you’re in earshot, about ten feet away in the noisy court thronging with shoppers. You lift a hand in greeting and then feel super lame. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to care about that, not hesitating to throw his arms around you, beaming. He even picks you up and rocks you a bit and it’s weird (put me down put me down) but also nice and you find yourself wrapping your own arms around his neck and maybe, just a little, burying your face in his shoulder. The butterflies are back and you don’t want him to see the look on your face.

After a few minutes, Jake seems to realize what a spectacle the two of you are making and he lowers you back to your feet, though his arms stay put. You don’t mind at all. The cares of the day are leaving you simply by being near him and his furnace-like body heat is suddenly soothing. The two of you aren’t together, not officially. You’re not even sure how close you are unofficially, but he doesn’t even react when you slip your hand into his except to lightly squeeze your palm.

“You’re taller than I thought you’d be.” 

Jake laughs. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that!” He tugs on your arm a bit in mock punishment. “You’re just how I imagined.”

“Imagine me a lot, do you?” Okay, so your mouth is kind of running away without your permission. Damn it’s difficult talking to him without the buffer of a chat client. You’re pretty sure he’d head for the door if you just stood here for ten minutes formulating the perfect bon mot, though. Not like you could blame it on being wrapped up in another tab either.

He blushes a bit and doesn’t answer you. Instead, he points to the menu. “Let’s grab some grub, shall we? You look half-starved, and I don’t blame you! If the arcade was any indication, the day has been simply harrowing! Golly, I never figured Christmas shopping could get quite so rough-and-tumble. It’s like being back on Hellmurder Island when the Crabdads scent blood!”

“I’m sure it’s exactly like that,” you agree unironically. 

He insists on paying when you reach the counter and you let him do it because it will make him happy. That’s always been a top priority for you. You’re beginning to think he feels the same about you, because here he is in Boston, real and solid and _holding your hand._ He doesn’t let it go until your tray comes out and he has to carry it to the table, leaving you on drink duty.

You try and find a table that’s not too disgusting and also out of the way of the crowd and are only mildly successful, but you can deal with a few ketchup spills for the relative privacy of sheltering behind a fake tree in a little landscaped island. He tangles your legs together as you unwrap your dumplings and you’re not used to being touched so frequently but you think you could learn to like it. As it is, you carefully separate your ankles and sit back, popping a shrimp into your mouth.

Jake takes the hint, subtle as it is, and gives you more space. He’s probably been talking to Roxy about this for days. No wonder you haven’t seen either of them on much. Sneaky. You need to be more observant. 

“So how was the trip?” you ask, once both of you have settled into a rhythm of munching away. He shrugs and puts down his plastic spoon, grains of rice clinging to his lips.

“Not too bad. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone adventuring, you know! I’ve gotten used to riding in the ol’ helicopter and stuff. Although I have to say, Boston is one of the biggest cities in which I’ve had the pleasure to drop my anchor. And it’s chillier than I was hoping!”

You shake your head. “Nice legs, daisy dukes~”

“Very funny, Strider! But I can’t help it if this is the most convenient form of dress for toting around two spiffing pistols in the event of a wildlife attack!” He makes finger-pistols at you but you kick him before he can start winking, too. 

“The closest you’ll come to a wildlife attack here is if you piss off a taxi driver. I suggest buying at least a few pairs of jeans at Wal-Mart or something before you go back to your hotel. I’d lend you some of mine, but I’m pretty sure they won’t fit.” Not with those muscles. Yikes. …You’re going to stop examining his thighs now.

“Just point me in the right direction then,” he says, picking up his spoon again and you nod and say you can do that and then you fall silent again, focusing on your food.

You spend about an hour together, bantering and holding hands and just sitting together for the first time without screens in the way. Eventually, you realize your eyes keep slipping shut, though, so you give him directions to pants and your apartment building and you make plans to spend Christmas Eve together watching all the Christmas specials you can find on TV, even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t get wrapped up that shit. 

In the parking lot he kisses you chastely on the mouth after scraping the snow off your shitty truck for you and tells you not to piss off any cab drivers on the way back to your apartment. You press your lips to his neck and murmur an affirmative before watching him walk to the T, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost.

When you finally get home through the traffic, you’re beat, so you just dump all of your stuff in the kitchen before stripping and hopping into bed. You’re asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow, even though it’s barely ten o’clock.

\---

It’s still snowing outside, and on a better night, you might be leaning by the window, watching the flakes drift dizzyingly through the pale coronas of the streetlamps. Unfortunately, just the thought of those dancing flurries makes your stomach clench again and you try to lever yourself up in time to avoid hurling on the bathroom floor. Most of it gets in the toilet and you give yourself points for close enough before laying back down on your makeshift towel pillow and giving yourself over to shivering.

It’s 2 AM on Christmas Eve and you’re beginning to think the butterflies from earlier may have been trying to tell you something. Like maybe to never put anything in your stomach ever again.

You wish your brother was here.

\---

At 6, you wake up, stiff and aching and freezing on the tile. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and you desperately want a shower, but you’re exhausted by the time you stand up, limbs shaking. Holy hell, you haven’t felt this bad in years. You try to distance yourself from the sensations of illness, instead cataloguing them neatly in your mind as you force yourself through brushing your teeth. Fever, chills, nausea, fatigue. You need to find a thermometer. You need to clean up a bit, too. You wet some paper towels.

You change the bag in your bedroom wastebasket, making yourself move automatically. You get the full one as far as the hallway before your grip starts slipping, so you just set it down there. You’ll move it later. It seems like a painfully long distance to your kitchen right now, so you just turn around and climb back into bed, dragging the covers over you and trying to escape into sleep. For half an hour you lie there, trying, but the periodic stomach cramps resurge every time you so much as shift. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to whimper.

Your phone is on your bedside table. At seven you grab at it weakly and drag it up next to your head. You punch in a number that you never use yet know by heart anyway.

“Come on…” It rings. That’s a good sign. But then you hear the click as the familiar spiel starts.

 _“This is Dave Strider. I’ve got things to see and people to do, but if you think I’ll like what you’re selling, leave a message.”_ Beep.

You call him six times and listen to the recording through to the end before you get sick of yourself. In a fit of pique, you block the number. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, he doesn’t have to. You log on to Pesterchum just to block him there too. You acknowledge that you’re acting like a child. You don’t care.

You’re about to close your eyes again and give yourself up to whatever God is tormenting you in the hopes that at least then your body will stop hurting so god damn much, but you catch a flash of pink out of the corner of your eye and sigh. Roxy’s online. You’re pestering her before you know what to say.

TT: Hey Roxy, please tell me you’re sober or drunk enough to talk and aren’t going to bed…

You wait a bit for an answer, expecting that she probably just got back from a night out. She went home to New York for the break since her dorm closed and you’ve heard plenty of stories of the crazy parties she throws in the woods around her modernist’s wet dream of a mansion. You would have thought December would be too cold for such antics, but as she’d laced her arms around you in the train station she’d promised to send pictures from the bonfires, so maybe not.

She’s still not answering.

TT: Roxy, come on. Either log off or say something. I’m not going to wait forever for you to kick the hangover this morning. 

This time she types back in a few seconds. You grit your teeth and turn so you can prop the phone up on the mattress beside you.

tt: I’m sure Roxy would get back to you posthaste if she were awake, Dirk, but she surprisingly followed my instructions and turned in at a reasonable hour tonight. 

You blink.

tt: Whatever sleep-muddled or insomniac state you find yourself in must have convinced you you had got a hold of her, but I assure you, reluctantly, since you seem in some need of reassurance, that you have mistaken the colors of our text.  
tt: The colors, surely, for our chumhandles are rather noticeably different.

And so they are, aren’t they. You’ve been pestering Roxy’s mom this whole time. You idiot. You shove your limp bangs out of your face, suddenly bone tired.

TT: You’re right, of course. My mistake.  
tt: Not a problem at all.  
tt: Since you have started a conversation with me, however, may I inquire as to what’s on your mind?

You consider it. When you were a kid, back when you had first met everyone in various chat rooms and introduced them to each other, you’d never traded personal information. Although you were sharp enough to pick up on details anyway, you didn’t ask about their parents and you didn’t talk about your own situation. It was only when Dave started leaving more and more for big fat deals (and when he started apologizing less and less) that you had even brought him up to Roxy, practically flinging the story at her with paragraphs of hurt and angry text.

She had comforted you as best she could from across the country and told you that her mom wasn’t around much either, though she found the occasional passive-aggressive note pasted to the refrigerator or the mantel or her bedroom doorknob. She sent you a photograph of her cat Frigglish to cheer you up. It’s still pasted to the wall by your desk in your bedroom at the house in Houston.

Things changed when you got older as they were bound to, but not always in terrible ways. So Dave moved to LA permanently, which sucked, but Roxy’s mom seemed to have an attack of conscience and started spending a lot more time at home. Roxy complained daily to you about how hard it was to sneak out under her implacable violet gaze, but you could tell she was happy. She stopped drinking quite so much and started getting better grades. You also got the opportunity to meet Mrs. Lalonde online, and though you never traded more than a few polite lines, you trusted her. She was one of those parents you could tell or ask anything and she would keep the information safe.

You make up your mind.

TT: Not a lot intelligent, I’m afraid.  
TT: I’m sick.  
tt: I’m sorry to hear that. Have you taken any medication yet?  
TT: It’s on the to-do list.  
tt: I think I’ll humbly suggest bumping it up a few ranks. What’s ailing you? I hope you had the presence of mind to attend one of your college’s flu clinics back in October at least.  
TT: Yeah, I got the shot. Anyway, this is probably the norovirus they’ve been talking about on the news. It was going around campus before break started.  
tt: Have you been throwing up?  
TT: Yes.  
tt: I’m sorry, hon. You should try drinking some water if you can keep it down. You don’t want to become dehydrated. The effects would not be pleasant and you would end up spending Christmas at the hospital.  
tt: Dirk?  
TT: I’m here. Thanks for this, by the way.  
tt: I’ve hardly done anything at all.  
TT: It’s just nice talking to someone.  
TT: Bro isn’t picking up.  
tt: Yes. I gather Dave hasn’t been the best brother to you and I’m sorry about that. I feel quite guilty for my youthful negligence of Roxy. Hopefully I’ve been making some progress toward regaining her trust, as much as I have betrayed it.  
TT: Mrs. Lalonde, you don’t need to worry. She’s doing fine. She loves you a lot.  
tt: Thank you, Dirk. That brightens my spirits considerably.  
tt: May I ask you something?  
TT: Sure.  
tt: Do you love your brother?

You stare at the screen and bite your lip.

TT: I’d be kind of a dick not to, since he raised me and all.  
tt: An admirable dodge, Mr. Flash-step. I’m sure you will attain the top rank of the ninjas in no time at all.  
tt: I apologize. It isn’t particularly noble or motherly of me to pick on an individual so far under the weather. I’m afraid the snark is rather far rooted in my black little heart. Please forgive me. 

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling a little. This is strange but not unwelcome.

TT: Of course.  
tt: I am relieved to hear it.  
tt: But the fact remains that you are still avoiding the question.

You could just sign off. No one would blame you. But you weren’t brought up to be a coward.

TT: Yeah, I do.  
TT: I just wish sometimes that he would return the favor.

There you go, laying yourself out for the world to see. Your problems may not be particularly mysterious or even unrelatable, but that doesn’t mean you ever planned on just summarizing yourself like that. You need time to prepare for these things. Your stomach is starting to hurt again and not in the manner of a cramp. You swallow.

tt: Even though it’s difficult to believe, I’m sure he loves you just as much as you love him, Dirk.  
tt: That sounds like a baseless platitude, but I would never think to stoop so low in my arguments.  
TT: Sure.

You scoot a bit closer to the edge of your bed.

tt: It’s possible that this time he may have a good reason for not answering his phone.

You roll your eyes. You’ve never heard that one before. You’re about to tell her so and maybe to drop the subject, but gravity and the contents of your stomach pick that moment to conspire against you. Sometime during the ensuing misery, you lose your grip on your phone and it goes skittering under your bed. Oh well. You were getting tired of talking anyway.

\---

It’s snowing outside, and that is exciting! You’ve seen lots of snow before in movies (such as in practically every Christmas special ever. You’ve seen them all. They all have a special place in your heart, despite never really celebrating Christmas in a normal fashion), but this is the first time you actually get to stand in the stuff. You won’t admit to anyone the little celebratory dance you did once you finally broke free of the airport and could feel snowflakes on your face and tongue and legs. You’ve covered up today with a pair of jeans at your best bro ever (and possible boyfriend?)’s suggestion and you’re a lot warmer today than you were. Now that you’re prepared, you can enjoy the season even more, and you practically hum to yourself as you follow your map down a side street and pause before a brick apartment building.

So this is where Dirk lives when he’s busying himself with college and not with puppets or swords or whatever it is he gets up to in his spare time these days. You like it. It gives off a homey feel, or maybe that’s just the New England charm and the plastic light-up reindeer in the tiny square of front yard. You advance up the steps and hesitate before just pushing the door in. You suppose most of the time it’s proper for people to buzz themselves in or something, but Dirk told you ahead of time that the lock doesn’t always work spectacularly and that you should just come up. It looks like that’s what you’re doing.

He lives on the top floor and there’s no elevator, but you don’t mind hoofing it. It’s only six flights of stairs; you’re barely breathing hard when you plant yourself in front of his unassuming white door – plaque: D. Strider, no solicitations – and raise a hand to knock. You hope he’s not still sleeping! It’s just about ten o’clock, which you think is a normal time for people to be up and about. Dirk always seemed like a morning person to you, anyway. 

“Strider!” you call, though you keep it low so as to not disturb the neighbors (strange concept, neighbors). “Ready for an extra-large helping of the Christmas spirit? ABC has just about every hit under the sun and I brought popcorn!”

It takes you a little while to begin feeling foolish and a little while longer to check and re-check your scribbled down directions and the door in front of your face. You don’t think you could possibly have taken a wrong turn, not with all the work you put into being absolutely right. You’re about to call Dirk directly when you finally see the handle twist and the door swing inward.

“There you are! I was getting downright worried for a second. How are… you? Dirk!” Your eyes widen. He looks _horrendous._ Pale skin even paler than usual, eyes sunken… He’s swimming in the sweatpants and ridiculous long-sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing (plastered with ironic (you guess) pictures of his brother’s movie characters) and hunching a little as he leans on the door frame. He’s not even wearing his sunglasses.

“I think I’ll pass on the popcorn,” he says, voice a quiet rasp.

“Yes, of course! You should be in bed!” You gasp. “I didn’t get you up, did I? Oh Dirk, I’m sorry…”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I was awake anyway.”

You wring your hands. Despite the cheerful plans you made before, you don’t really want to impose on him in this state. You know you can be a bit overbearing sometimes and he’s also so focused on appearances… Then again, he lives here alone and clearly needs someone looking after him. You know just the person! Nanna! She knows just what to do to make you feel better no matter what the ailment. Unfortunately, she’s in Egypt right now, but you think you could try filling in for her if Dirk will allow it.

“Can I come in?” You smile at him hopefully.

He grimaces. “I know you came all this way, but I’m not really in a…” He trails off and brings a hand up to his stomach, eyes closing. He takes a shallow breath. “A ‘company’ kind of mood.”

You bite your lip, worried. “At least let me get you back to your room... You look about ready to kiss the carpet, there.” You slowly reach out and touch his arm, and he doesn’t shake you off. Carefully, you steer him back into the tiny foyer of the apartment and nudge the door shut behind you. “I should have called first.”

“Wouldn’t have done any good. I dropped my phone a while ago and now I can’t find it.” He’s pulled away from you now and is shuffling down the hallway toward what you hope is a cozy bed. You trail after him. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Not at all! It’s not as if I expect you to clean up for my sake. And my humble abode is even worse.” You dodge a trash bag in the hall and decide that, if your movie party isn’t going to happen – and you really think you ought to take a pass on it – you can at least tidy up a bit before Dirk asks you to leave. It’s no fun having to take care of the finicky details when you’re sick, and you’ve had enough of that yourself to be sympathetic. 

“Mm. Still.” Dirk pushes open the door to his bedroom and you follow him in. It’s rather small and the clutter of hi-tech gadgets everywhere makes it seem more so. He’s got a desktop computer set up in the corner, surrounded by rolls of blueprint paper, Excel sheet print-outs, and various tools, a laptop sleeping beside the carpet and a stack of thick textbooks, and a whole host of various Apple products taking up space on the top of his dresser. As a person who never leaves the house without five computers on you, you are impressed. Of course, these aren’t the only touch of personality in the room, and you smile to see the row of plastic figures on the bookshelf and the full-length mirror he’s hung on the back of the door.

He’s climbed under a rumpled pile of sheets and bedding while you satisfied your curiosity and you hurry over to tuck him in. He raises an eyebrow at you as you smooth down the coverlet, but doesn’t protest. You think he might even be smiling a little.

“Thanks.”

You shake your head. “Not at all! Just doing what anyone would, chap.” You pat his knee. “Is there anything I can do for you? Oh! You said you’d lost your phone.” Before he can say anything, you get down and hunt for it under the bed. After a few seconds, you find it up by the wall and grab it. “Hm. Looks like someone’s been trying to get you on Pesterchum. …Roxy’s mom?” You hand it to him. 

“That’s not important.” He sticks it on the bedside table after logging out of the app, eyelids drooping.

“All righty then. I guess I’ll leave you to dreamland, then. If you need anything, just call, okay?”

“Sure.” He waves you off weakly and then turns his face into the pillow, which you take for a dismissal. You expect Dirk would prefer you to shut his door, but you leave it ajar in case he does need something or if he feels worse. Poor guy. 

The apartment on the whole is pretty neat already, but you take out the trash and stick the few dishes on the counter into the dishwasher. After that, you figure you should leave. It feels kind of weird to be in someone else’s house while they’re asleep. Or at all, really. You didn’t get visiting much on the island. You’re a lot more accustomed to social encounters taking place at the closest tea shop or archaeological dig, however Nanna is feeling that day, followed by rest at a hotel. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

Still, you don’t like the thought of Dirk being here alone. What if something happened and he couldn’t get to a phone? He could lose his cell again… You like to think you’re quite good at taking care of yourself by now, but it’s always better with help nearby, even if all they’re doing is filling some of the space of an empty house. You think you ought to be that person for your boyfriend. 

You ease yourself onto his couch.

And you do want to be his boyfriend. Yes, you’ve been trading flirty messages for years back and forth, but you had always sort of figured that was a thing bros did up until you turned seventeen and Dirk confessed to you. You bite your thumbnail. There had been a rough year or so afterward, but you like to think you’ve talked through all the issues by now. You’re ready. The leap in your heartbeat when you’d first spotted him behind his register… You know you’re making the right choice. Even if this is the first time you’ve met in person.

You can only spend so long flipping though the reader for Dirk’s… you’re going to go with engineering class, found on the coffee table among a few catalogs and clipped coupons, before you get bored. It’s very quiet in the house; not even the neighbors are thumping around in their flats. Dirk seems to be sleeping peacefully. You figure he wouldn’t mind if you turn on the truly state-of-the-art TV as long as you keep the volume low. You skip on the popcorn, but you do dig out the beef jerky you brought along with you and gnaw on it thoughtfully as you channel-surf. There’s nothing much good on at this time of day, so you settle for watching the Loony Tunes Christmas special, which you suppose isn’t that bad after all…

\---

It’s a few hours later, nearing two o’clock, the next time you see Dirk. You’re just finishing heating a pot of chicken broth on the stove when he shuffles into the kitchen, arms crossed loosely before him. You don’t say anything, but his hair is sticking up all over everywhere and it brings a smile to your face. You do a bad job of hiding it and he scowls a bit at you, sneaking a side glance at his reflection in the microwave and hastily smoothing it down.

“Hello, Strider! You’re looking a bit better than this morning.” You switch off the burner and slip on a pair of oven mitts before lifting the pot to pour into a container.

“I guess.” He sits down carefully on one of the chairs ringing his tiny kitchen table. “Not feeling so shitty, either. What are you doing?”

“Making you soup! You don’t have to take it on now if you don’t want to, but I thought it’d be splendid if you had something to heat up for later. The television programming was getting a little bit repetitive, so I nipped out to the store while you were sleeping.” You put a cover on the soup and stick the pot in the sink. “There’s a new bottle of aspirin and things in that bag there.” You didn’t really pick up too much, just the bare essentials, but you figure it’s better than nothing.

He pulls it over and pokes through it, then gives you a brief Strider-grin. “You’re a doll.”

“I think you’ve been spending too much time around me.” You come over to his chair and wrap your arms gently around him. He leans his forehead against your shoulder.

“No such thing.”

“If you say so!” You pull back and study his face. “Are you going to get some more kip, or should I make you up a spot on the sofa?” 

He shrugs a bit and surveys the living room. “I’ll come sit with you. I think I’m going to shower first, though.” He pulls himself up with your help. “Leave me some cushions.”

“Of course.” 

He heads out of the kitchen and you put the broth in the fridge and clean up. You’re quite glad to see him up and about. You’d been getting lonely. Not even Roxy and Jane are answering their phones. You suppose they must be busy with their families today, and although you’d Skyped Nanna, she won’t be back at the Island with you until New Year’s. 

It’s just then that your phone decides to buzz and you fish it out of your pocket with curiosity. It’s a new text message, but though the number’s unknown, your eyebrows rise to see the words. “Dirk?” you call, hoping he hasn’t started the water yet.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a second bedroom here?”

He leans his head around the bathroom door. “No, but if you want to stay over, the couch folds out. I feel I should warn you that your hotel would be a lot more comfortable, though.”

You nod. “Yes, all right. Thanks!”

“Sure.” He leaves his eyes on you for a second longer, then disappears again and shuts the door.

You send a quick reply, then tuck your phone back in your pocket. 

\---

The shower brightens your spirits and takes the disgusting edge off your day, so even though you’re still tired and would love to pass out somewhere out of the way, you pull on a new set of pajama and join Jake on the couch. He’s kept his word and made a comfortable nest of pillows and blankets for you, and he doesn’t even mind when you end up sticking your legs across his lap. Instead, he just tucks the blanket around your feet and gives you the remote.

“Have you been watching this all day?” you ask, regarding the brightly-colored riot of singing on the TV skeptically. You know that’s what you were planning to do, but you’re already tired of it.

“Yep!” He rubs your ankle and you relax into the couch cushions. “Although this is the third time the Grinch has been on. We could watch something else, if you like.”

You get him to put in _Die Hard_ and assure yourself that he won’t hold it against you if you fall asleep in the first twenty minutes. It’s a bit hard to remain comfortable when he keeps shifting around like that, though. You finally pause the film and give him a look.

“I know you like Bruce Willis, but I didn’t realize he was that good at driving you to distraction.” But he’s not looking at the screen, eyes instead fixed on your front door. “Expecting pizza?”

He jumps a bit and smiles nervously. “Don’t be silly, Dirk! Your mind is playing tricks on-” The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” You can only watch in confusion as he gently sets your legs to the side and jogs to the door, rubbing his hands together in outright _glee._ “Oh, finally!” he says, straightening up and pulling the door open with aplomb.

“Ho ho ho and all that holiday fuckery,” says Dave, stepping inside. He’s wearing a suit, like he just came from one of his premiers, but he has an ironic Santa hat perched on his pale, snow-flecked hair. “Have you been naughty or nice this year? Who am I kidding, you’re a Strider.”

You have to stare. “Bro?”

“The one and only.” He kicks off $300 sneakers without a care and enters the living room. You sit up and meet him half-way in what you suppose, in some cultures, would be considered an embrace.

“I thought you were staying in LA for the holidays.” 

He lets you go and flops down in Jake’s spot on the couch. Jake doesn’t seem to mind, beaming as he is in the doorway. “I do still have some shit to take care of, yeah, but Rose called me up fuming and said I had to get my ass over here. How are you feeling?”

Rose…? Oh. Roxy’s mom. You get a strange warm feeling. “Better. Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.” He stretches and folds his arms behind his back, sticking socked feet up on your coffee table. That’s your Bro. “I was going to call, but the number wasn’t working for some reason, so I had to ring your boyfriend.” He turns to you, patented poker-face in place. “Where did you _find_ this guy? I mean really.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you’re in any position to throw stones on the eccentric front.” You hold out an arm and Jake comes over so you can wrap it around his waist. “Thanks for coming. I guess.”

His lips momentarily thin, then he heaves a sigh. “Yeah. About that other shit… This was supposed to be a goddamn New Year’s surprise, but you’re forcing my hand here.” He drops his hands and turns to you, uncharacteristically straightforward. “I’m moving back to the house in Houston.”

You tighten your grip on Jake to ground you and he places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Really? I thought you hated Texas.”

He shrugs. “I’m getting pretty sick of LA, too, to be honest. Besides, I’m guessing there’s at least one robot in Houston that I haven’t fought yet. It’s been way too long since I’ve tested your skills.”

You break out in a grin. “Jake, do you mind ordering Chinese? I think I’m going to let Bro stay.”

\---

You go to bed early, no later than eight o’clock, leaving Dave in the kitchen with his smartphone. Jake follows you into your bedroom and cuddles with you for a few minutes despite your semi-sarcastic protests, ending up spooning you on top of the covers. You’d invite him to stay, but you’re still far from 100% and you don’t want him catching it, so you eventually push him away.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, brushing the hair away from your face. “Get some rest. Feel better. And prepare yourself, because I brought you the absolute best gift ever! It’s a real winner, you’ll see!”

“Ahaha… I sent yours to the island.” You let him kiss your cheek, wishing you could do more.

“That’s all right. I’ll open it with Nanna for New Year’s.” He straightens up and you let your eyes slip closed.

“Thanks for coming, Jake. I love you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I know.” He goes to the door. “That was a reference to Han Solo!”

Where did you find this guy? No seriously. You shake your head. “Good night.” He says the same to you and pulls the door closed until there’s just a sliver of light left. You pull the blanket up to your chin and let sleep take you, looking forward to Christmas tomorrow.


End file.
